Charity Day
by brent-dog
Summary: Turns out, every year the League has a Charity Golf Day. This is what happens on one of them. One shot bromance fluffiness, not slash.


Author's notes: A little idea that came to me the other night about what might happen if the League had an annual charity golf day. This is pure, shameless, plotless bromance, but hopefully funny enough to warrant some kind comments. Defeinitely _not _slash.

Disclaimer: I don't own any of these characters, which is probably all for the good as a JL episode based on golf would suck.

Reviews are very much appreciated.

* * *

The shot was truly terrible.

As soon as it was struck the golf ball started to pull right, before swerving rapidly back toward the left. It was an ugly, vicious hook, one that was going to see the ball miss its target by a country mile, possibly even end up amongst the innocent players of the fourth hole. Yet just before a shout of "Fore!" should have gone up in warning a freak gust of wind took the ball, altering the angle sharply and causing it to land on the edge of the green, where it nestled on the shaven carpet of grass with a contented plop.

Bruce Wayne narrowed his gaze suspiciously at the improbable nature of what he had just seen and turned to the man stood next to him.

"Stop cheating."

Even through the rims of Bruce's expensive Oakley sunglasses the Bat-Glare was obvious and Clark Kent shifted uncomfortably. For all his many skills and abilities, one thing Superman was not was a good liar – the wholesome values instilled in him by Ma and Pa Kent had seen to that. As soon as the accusation was made he blushed guiltily and fumbled awkwardly with his glasses, trying to conceal his obvious embarrassment.

"It was just some wind, that's all", he offered somewhat sheepishly.

Batman raised a perfectly-arched eyebrow above his sunglasses and lifted his visage up to the blue skies overhead. The sun was steadily beating down, as it had done ever since the League arrived on the course that morning for their annual Charity Golf Day. The few white clouds that were present were fat and content and most definitely _not_ moving in any sort of wind.

Clark followed his view, squinting slightly as he regarded the sun. "Fair point."

"He did cheat," intoned the ever-honest J'onn J'onzz, his voice deep and solemn. "I saw his cheeks expand and contract as he blew outward. And the guilt radiating off him is… overwhelming."

The blush on Clark's face became even more pronounced and further fumbling with the glasses occurred. "I… uh… I was just making sure I didn't hit the guys on the other hole. I _do_ have a pretty powerful swing, after all."

The excuse sounded pretty lame, even to Clark himself, and it was no surprise when John Stewart snorted derisively beside them. "I think Ollie and Cap would have been able to dodge your wayward shot! And I'd be a little more inclined to buy what you're selling, Clark, if you hadn't ice-breath frozen the water hazard on the first hole just before your ball was about to splash-land! Why don't you just admit that you want to win?"

Clark grinned and spread his hands. "Ok, ok, you've got me. Golf brings out my competitive side. Another penalty stroke for me then, I guess?"

Batman nodded at J'onn, who noted down the foul shot with all the seriousness and solemnity of a priest at a religious function. As he did so a fountain of sand suddenly shot up from one of the bunkers ahead of them, accompanied by much cursing.

"Man, this game sucks!"

Wally West, aka Flash, stuck his head above the lip of the bunker and ran a hand through his tousled red hair. The other was still whirling his golf club at near supersonic speeds, all the while merrily shooting sand in all directions. The site was comical enough even before one took into account the rather ridiculous clothes that he was wearing.

To say that Wally was outlandishly attired – even by golfing standards – would have been something of an understatement. A pair of turquoise, pistachio and white plaid trousers had been coupled with a light yellow polo shirt and sun visor. His white golf shoes were perhaps the only normal thing about what he was wearing, although Bruce had, as a favour, custom fitted them with some WayneTech alloys to allow for the occasional bout of super-speed.

When Wally first arrived at the course clubhouse, to the boggle-eyed stares of half of the League and sniggers from the remainder, he defended himself by saying that he'd simply asked for the "most bling" clothes his nearest golf shop had to offer.

"You look like a preppy pimp," Batman pithily observed.

"Hey, no fair, Bats!" replied Wally. "I'm just making a statement."

"Yeah," agreed GL. "Too bad that statement is 'I have no taste'".

Superman, who had maintained a neutral face up until that point, burst out in laughter, as did the nearby Aztek, Elongated Man and Mr Terrific. In fact, the only person in earshot who didn't laugh along was Booster Gold, who had turned up in an even more ridiculous ensemble of chocolate coloured pants and a gold lame shirt, and had the good sense to remain quiet.

"Sure, laugh it up, guys!" Flash shot back good-naturedly. "You'll be laughing on the other side of your faces when I've laced the greens with light-speed balls and won this little golf contest of yours."

But now, just two holes in and already several strokes behind the others, Wally had a whine on, and he was sure as hell going to let the rest of his golfing buddies know it. "Why did I let you talk me into this, Bats?"

"Talk you into this?" Bruce turned his bat-glare on Flash, who gulped and finally stopped spinning his golf club around himself. "After I left you out of the last Charity Day you practically begged me to come along this time!'"

"Yeah, but no one told me how difficult this stupid sport was!" moaned Wally.

Batman continued to regard him levelly. "I did tell you. And to quote you directly: 'I've seen Happy Gilmore, how hard can golf actually be?'"

Green Lantern chuckled softly whilst shaking his head. "He's about as good at golf as he is with the ladies. Or "Hot Chicks", as he invariably likes to call them."

"Hey, I heard that!" With a rush of air and a spattering of sand the Fastest Man Alive zipped back alongside them, an exaggerated look of mock outrage on his face. "You're just envious of my natural charm, is all."

"Envious? I've just got two things to say to that: Shayera _and _Marni," said John, counting off on his fingers for emphasis.

Batman smirked slightly at the response, whilst Superman looked a little uncomfortable. "Ummm, John," began the erstwhile leader of the League, "I don't think it's wholly appropriate to talk about our colleagues in such terms…"

"Hey, lighten up Supes," interjected Flash "You're starting to sound like Di when she lectures us about objectifying women."

"Us?" returned Clark.

"Ok, ok," admitted Wally. "Just me."

J'onn cleared his throat behind them in an awkward alien cough. "Perhaps we should concentrate on hitting our next shots? I can sense that the group on the first hole is almost done."

"Gotta clean the Kid's mess up first," muttered John, and as he did so four arcs of emerald light grew out of his Green Lantern power ring, angling toward the bunker that Flash had previously been standing in. As they approached their target destination the ends of them evolved into the shape of four regular garden shovels, which Lantern used to scoop up the sand that Wally had scattered over half the course. After he was done putting the sand back in place the four beams coalesced into one and became a giant rake, which he used to smooth over the bunker.

As a former Marine, John Stewart knew that he was fairly good with depth perception and distances. He reckoned he was around 130 yards away from the flag and with a mere thought willed a perfect green 7 iron into his hand. Planting his feet in the ground shoulder width apart, he bent his knees slightly and swung, making sure to keep his eyes on the ball and twisting his body and arms round to make a clean contact.

He didn't need to look to know that the hit was a good one. Sometimes, you could just tell with these things. The groan of jealousy from Flash, accompanied by a small whoop of appreciation from Clark, simply confirmed what he already knew.

"Man, where'd a Jarhead who grew up in Detroit learn to hit shots like that?"

Green Lantern shrugged nonchalantly at Flash as his ball landed comfortably inside the green, about ten yards from the flag. "When I first joined the Marines I was lucky enough to be stationed in Hawaii by the Kaneohe Klipper course."

Flash stared back blankly, prompting Batman to say "It's consistently been voted the best Department of Defence Golf Course, Wally."

"Aaahh, I see," said Wally as realisation dawned. "So you and your buddies would go and mess about on the golf course after parade then?"

"Something like that," agreed John, suddenly brining to mind the time when he and his squad mates got roaring drunk and 'appropriated' a few golf buggies to ride roughshod across the course one night. "We, uh, had some fun times playing golf. After that, I guess I was kinda bitten by the bug. Try to play whenever I can."

As the others stood still, continuing to admire the golfing handiwork of Green Lantern, Bruce Wayne strode confidently up to his ball position. "Well, that's some shot to follow, John" he smiled, his grin every inch that of the foppish dilettante who kept gossip writers busy rather than the usually serious Batman.

Unlike Wally, Bruce had come to the charity day stylishly outfitted in an expensive array of top of the line golfing gear. Blue golf pants had been teamed with a pink Ping golf polo, topped off with a white Nike cap and a pair of mirrored wraparound sunglasses. With his chiselled good looks and toned forearms he looked as if he could have been a model from a golfing catalogue, rather than a billionaire playboy with a vigilante complex.

Bruce reached down to his belt and grabbed a small metal disc attached there. It was palm sized and sleek and expensive looking. In other words, exactly the sort of thing one would expect to find on Batman's belt, except it was finished with a polished silver sheen rather than the more traditional matte black.

Clark looked amused. "What is it with you and gadgets on belts, Bruce?"

"This isn't a _gadget_, Clark. It's a Distance Calculating Talking Golf Caddy. It has over 35,000 courses loaded into its database. A single press of this button…"

Batman pressed said button, causing everyone to duck slightly.

"… and I get an accurate green reading to within approximately nine feet."

A smooth female voice announced that Batman was some 117 yards from the flag in his current position.

"And there are no other features on that thing?" asked a nervous Flash.

"No," replied a for-once puzzled Batman. "Not unless you include the nine different languages and the fact I can ask it the distance to the front, back or middle of the Green. Why do you ask?"

"So no knockout gas if you flick the wrong button?"

"Oh, ha ha, Wally. No."

"No tasers ready to leap out if you twist it funny?"

"No."

"Exploding miniature Batarangs?"

"No."

"Monofilament Bat-nets?

"NO."

"Lockpick tools?"

"NO!"

Batman advanced on Wally with a threatening step. The Speedster blanched and took his own step back, but still managed to squeak out another question.

"Anti-poison tablets?"

At that Batman paused, before looking down at the talking caddy.

"Well, it pays to be careful."

Everybody groaned.

* * *

Four hours in and Wally had truly had enough of Golf.

Given his super-speed, from a young age Wally had tended to excel at any sport he turned his hand to. Soccer, football, tennis, baseball; all of them had been easy. The greatest challenge had been to slow himself down enough so as not to appear too good.

But not golf. Oh no, not golf. It was a sport that reversed the natural order of things if you asked him. It rewarded finesse over speed, precision over strength, technique over instinct. All of which probably explained why Batman was so annoyingly good at it.

That, and the inordinately long amount of time it took him to line up each and every shot.

After seventeen holes of this god-awful sport Wally felt as though he had almost grown up with Batman's golfing routine and could quote it off by heart. First, he would wipe his hands down on the towel strapped to his ridiculously expensive motorised golf cart. Then he would use his admittedly cool talking caddy thingamajiggy to calculate the distance. After that he'd throw a blade of grass up in the air to test wind speed, slowly select his club of choice, assume the position for his shot, wiggle his butt once, then twice, adjust his grip…

The length of time taken had a way of imbuing every single shot that Batman took with an unbelievable amount of tension. But then, that shouldn't really have come as a surprise to him. After all, everything Batman did was just so _intense_. Why should sport be any exception?

Finally the head of Bruce's golf club was raised and despite his better instincts Wally found himself drawing in a breath of anticipation. The sun seemed to have somehow cranked up in temperature and the Scarlet Speedster felt a drop of sweat tickle its way slowly down his back. The tense atmosphere was almost palpable as the Dark Knight swung the club downward in a graceful descent. But just as Bruce was about to make contact with the ball the fake jauntiness of a mobile ringtone cut across the group, causing him to shank to the left and tear a massive clump of turf out of the course fairway.

"Dammit Clark! I told everybody to turn their mobile's off!"

Superman was reaching for his golf bag with an apologetic look on his face. "Sorry Bruce! It's Lois… you know how she can get…"

With his X-ray vision Clark quickly located exactly which pocket of the bag he had secreted his phone in and pressed the offending item to his ear. "Hi honey!" he answered breezily, trying to ignore the withering look that Batman was sending his way. "Yes, I'll grab some milk on the way home tonight…" With an embarassed wave he flew a good twenty yards away down the course.

"That boy is seriously whipped," said GL. "You wouldn't find me letting my woman boss me around like that."

The others exchanged incredulous looks. "Are we still talking about the same 'hit now, talk later' Hawkgirl here?" asked Wally.

John folded his arms across his chest in a sign of annoyance. "Say what you like, but Shayera knows who wears the pants in our household."

"I bet she does, and it ain't you."

"Enough already you two!" commanded Batman, cutting John short before he could formulate a response. "I never made contact with the ball so I still have to make my shot."

"Aww, man!" Flash griped. "This means we have to go through the routine again."

"Routine?"

Wally missed both the faintly threatening hint in Batman's voice and the warning look that J'onn tried to send him. "Yeah, y'know. The five minute ritual you have before you take your shot."

Batman narrowed his eyes. "I don't have a routine, Wally."

"Sure you do. You're, like, obsessive compulsive about the whole thing."

And with that, Batman took two steps towards the ball, pulled back his club and pinged a perfect shot to within a yard of the hole.

John let out a low whistle of appreciation. "Remind me how many golf courses you own again?"

"Including this one? About half a dozen or so." Batman turned back to a gawping Wally. "And I don't have a routine, Wally. I have a _cover_. I don't want to pretend to play golf badly, so years ago came up with a little act to justify why I'm almost good enough at it to be a professional."

"But… but… but… I don't get it." Wally scratched his head as if to emphasise his puzzlement. "Between running a multi-billion dollar company, being part of the League and doing your thing in Gotham, how on earth do you find the time to be so good at golf?"

"The clue is in the first part of what you just said. Bruce Wayne is a playboy CEO who is famously averse to being in the boardroom. Where on earth do you think I do most of my business meetings?"

Wally groaned. "Man, why does Batman always get to be so cool at everything?"

* * *

"Someone should really stop GL," observed Clark.

Both he and Bruce were leaning on the wooden balcony of the clubhouse veranda in the cool, crisp evening air. It was the first chance Clark had gotten to admire the full view of the course and he had to admit that it was quite beautiful. The sun had started to set, colouring the rolling fairways and greens with an orange hue. One of the larger water hazards, a pond that could almost have been called a lake, glittered like burnished bronze in the quickly fading light. Somewhere in the distance a bird screeched. He couldn't tell exactly what it was, but fancied that it might have been an owl.

The scene would have been almost entirely idyllic, were it not for the fact that three hours earlier the League Charity Day had retired to the plush surroundings of the clubhouse. A free bar had been generously provided therein by Bruce Wayne, and in that time a significant amount of alcohol had been consumed.

One result of which was the emerald green golf cart which a clearly inebriated John Stewart was driving in a doughnut around the first hole.

"Not to worry, I think the owner will be alright with it," Bruce grinned, sipping on his tumbler of ginger ale. "Besides, one of the clubhouse cameras is recording the whole thing. Shayera will be getting to see just how her fiancée behaves when she's not around."

"Oh, that's just plain evil, Bruce." Clark paused for a second before continuing. "Serves him right for calling me 'whipped' earlier, mind."

Bruce chuckled his amusement. "You head that, huh?"

"Super hearing, remember?" said Clark, tapping his left ear. "Works even when I have Lois going on at me in the right one."

Just as Batman was about to respond an almighty crash sounded from behind the pair. With the instinctive reflexes of super-heroes both men turned bodily to see tables and chairs being flung into the air by a turquoise, white and yellow blur. Using his own super speed Clark shot out a hand and grabbed Flash by the collar just before he was about to shoot out over the veranda.

"Hey guysh!" slurred the drunk Speedster.

Bruce merely frowned in response as he surveyed the damage to the clubhouse furniture. Just how much of the free bar had Wally consumed in order to get himself so smashed, given his super-fast metabolism? Someone was going to find themselves on permanent monitor duty for at least a week, that was for sure.

Thanks to his initial speed of approach, Wally had succeeded in getting his collar thoroughly entwined in Superman's grip and he tried to loosen himself by whirling about for a few seconds. When this proved fruitless he gave up, seemingly content to spin around with his feet dangling a few inches off the ground. Twenty seconds or so later Wally finally ceased his rotation and flung a belated hand of gratitude around Clark's broad shoulders. "Supes! You saved me! I love you, man. You've alwaysh been like *hic* a big brother to me."

Flash then proceeded to incline his head towards Batman, cupping a conspiratorial hand of secrecy around his mouth as he drew closer to the Dark Knight's ear. "But who'd of thought the big blue boy scout was such a cheater at golf, eh?"

The whisper was no doubt meant to have been quiet, but given Wally's drunkenness it came out as more of a hoarse shout. Either way it hardly mattered given the already established super hearing of the Man of Steel, and Clark flushed beetroot before letting go of the Flash, who landed with a bump on the floor.

"Owww, my tailbone!"

Batman snorted in exasperation. "It's called a Coccyx, Wally."

"Haha! Cock-six" laughed the Speedster.

Clark groaned slightly and rubbed a hand down his face. "How much longer do we have to put up with this?"

"With Wally's exuberant nature, we'd probably have heard if he was making an ass of himself back there before heading over to us. So given his metabolism, I think we have another few minutes or so of a drunken Flash to contend with."

"That long, eh?"

Batman couldn't help but agree with Clark. A few seconds of a drunk Wally was bad enough, let alone the next five minutes or so. He thought for a second then shouted, "J'onn!"

A moment later the Martian Manhunter phased up through the floor of clubhouse balcony, concern writ large across his alien features. "What is it, Batman? I sensed great worry from you."

Bruce pointed downward at Wally, who was rolling around muttering "cock-six, cock-six" and laughing to himself.

"What is wrong with Flash? Is he sick?"

"Something like that," agreed Bruce. "Could you look after him for us? I need to go check that the bar is properly stocked."

"Yeah… and I… I need to… go email a report to the paper!" Once again the lie from Clark was lousy, but J'onn either didn't notice or chose to ignore it.

"Of course," nodded J'onn. "I will ensure Flash comes to no harm."

The World's Finest made their past various knots of Leaguers grouped together in conversation and approached the bar. Green Arrow was holding court there, regaling a group that consisted of Vibe, Aztek and Speedy with some of his golfing stories. As he noticed Bruce and Clark nearing, he hastily finished his current tale then proceeded to extravagantly mime out a shot. "And that's how I won today, folks… with a perfect approach on the 18th!" He followed this up with a wink at Bruce before taking a long, deliberate pull from his whisky glass.

"Careful, Ollie… I'd hate to have to tell Dinah that you treating her to a spa retreat was simply a ruse so you could come to this golf day."

Green Arrow spluttered whisky down himself in shock. "How… how'd you know that?"

"World's Greatest Detective?"

"Ummm… oh yeah." Ollie took a moment to gather himself, then spread his hands beseechingly. "Look, I'm only messing around, I know you're the best golfer here. You wouldn't rat me out, right?"

Batman paused for a second or two, giving Green Arrow a little time to sweat, before replying, "Of course not."

Ollie let out a sigh of relief. "Get you two a drink?"

Clark nodded his assent. "Beer for me please. And the usual for Bruce."

Green Arrow signalled the barkeep. "Beer and a ginger ale please."

Clark leaned against the bar and turned towards Batman. "Y'know, I still don't know how you didn't win today, Bruce."

Batman shrugged. "Because I'm honest about my golfing handicap, whilst Ollie is a complete bandit."

"Haha, guilty as charged," admitted Ollie. "So… one thing's been bothering me about today. You know where Dinah is. But what about the other women of the League? I mean, I take it they were invited…"

"Of course," scoffed Batman. "Do you think Diana would allow me to _not_ send out an invite that included the girls as well? But, well, let's just say that having complete access to the staff rota has its benefits. Fire and Ice are on in the monitor womb, Zatanna is doing a stage show in New York, and Stargirl and Vixen are on duty in France."

"What about Wonder Woman and Hawkgirl then?"

"Well, Di thinks golf is 'an anachronistic symbol of chauvinism that typifies man's world.'" Batman paused for a moment before continuing. "Though really I suspect she resents that I spend any of what little free time I have on a golf course rather than with her."

"I know GL asked Shayera to come," chimed in Clark. "Tried to sell it to her as something she would like, since you get to hit things with sticks. But given the pregnancy she said no."

"Well, no harm done," said Ollie. "Does the boys good to get together every once in a while and blow off some steam."

Bruce took a sip of his ginger ale whilst they all stood together in companionable silence, contemplating the wisdom of Ollie's statement. "Same time next year then, gentlemen?"

"You betcha."


End file.
